So much of the day, he thinks sometimes, can be explained in so few words. Car broke down again, couple kilometers out of the city—bit of a lemon, ran through oil like petrol and petrol like water, so they had to walk for a while, until Alfons couldn't speak for the coughing. Then they sat, at the edge of the road with Edward's hand rubbing circles on his back, until they found their real ride—a farmer and a wagon, and bales of straw headed back their way. Simple enough. Broke down to a few sharp pencil strokes.
What isn't so simple is the pattern of night above them, and the soft heat directly next to him. He likes the stars because you can look up and never finish counting them, like the fine strands of straw beneath them, and the finer strands of Edward's hair rippling over those. When you're going to die, you aren't afraid to look into the infinite. He is just a teensy speck, and the stars look like specks for him, and when he looks up he only thinks that they're embracing him. No gods for dogs and scientists, his classmates always said, but he thinks idly that god is just another word for this fever that has gripped him.
And the other...Edward mutters a little and attracts Alfons' attention again, makes him pull his eyes away from the starlight. His friend is nothing like himself in the night time; he looks up at the stars sometimes like he'd rather tear them down. Or stranger, like he's looking beyond them. Complicated creature. He sees the infinite in Edward sometimes, too. Wonders, guiltily, what it would be like to embrace it.
The slow, steady hiss of Edward's breath is his metronome, and he brushes one hand fondly against his sleeping friends'. Hums a nameless tune.
Sky fits heaven, Alfons thinks, and someday he will find a way to get them both there.